Дэвид Копперфильд

I Become Neglected, and Am Provided for

           AtfirstIwasindailydreadofhistakingmyeducationinhandagain,orofMissMurdstone’sdevotingherselftoit;butIsoonbegantothinkthatsuchfearsweregroundless,andthatallIhadtoanticipatewasneglect.

           Idonotconceivethatthisdiscoverygavememuchpainthen.Iwasstillgiddywiththeshockofmymother’sdeath,andinakindofstunnedstateastoalltributarythings.Icanrecollect,indeed,tohavespeculated,atoddtimes,onthepossibilityofmynotbeingtaughtanymore,orcaredforanymore;andgrowinguptobeashabby,moodyman,lounginganidlelifeaway,aboutthevillage;aswellasonthefeasibilityofmygettingridofthispicturebygoingawaysomewhere,liketheheroinastory,toseekmyfortune:buttheseweretransientvisions,daydreamsIsatlookingatsometimes,asiftheywerefaintlypaintedorwrittenonthewallofmyroom,andwhich,astheymeltedaway,leftthewallblankagain.

           ‘Peggotty,’Isaidinathoughtfulwhisper,oneevening,whenIwaswarmingmyhandsatthekitchenfire,‘Mr.Murdstonelikesmelessthanheusedto.Heneverlikedmemuch,Peggotty;buthewouldrathernotevenseemenow,ifhecanhelpit.’

           ‘Perhapsit’shissorrow,’saidPeggotty,strokingmyhair.

           ‘Iamsure,Peggotty,Iamsorrytoo.IfIbelieveditwashissorrow,Ishouldnotthinkofitatall.Butit’snotthat;oh,no,it’snotthat.

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